Four months ago, I let a matchmaking agency run my dating life. Big mistake.
Their pitch? They had an elite database of serious men and would also manage my dating profiles. Sounds high-end. Reality? A total scam.
Turns out their “exclusive pool” was basically empty. Instead, they started swiping on dating apps pretending to be me—matching with men I’d already ghosted, and even worse, with known predators flagged in Are We Dating the Same Guy groups. I started spiraling, terrified they’d accidentally message an ex.
I pulled the plug. Lost the investment. Didn’t even flinch. When it’s your sanity on the line, money becomes irrelevant.
But before deleting all the profiles they made, I took a peek. And that’s how I met him.
Let’s call him the Cowboy.
51, Civil engineer. Entrepreneur. 6 ft tall, blue eyes, full of southern charm. He sold himself hard as an “old-school gentleman.” Every day: a good morning text, phone calls, voice notes, sweet nothings. He was courting me like it was the 1950s—except with better Wi-Fi.
After a few weeks of flirting, he said he’d cross the border to take me out. Literally. This man packed a bag, booked a hotel, and drove hours to meet me.
The date? Cute. Mostly.
He tried to dress up—bless him, but the man had no style. I let it go. The emotional connection felt real. We went to a bar, strolled through the old town, popped into a cathedral (romantic, I know), then more drinks, then dinner at a spot I picked. He was affectionate. Held my hand. Kissed my face every chance he got. In public. He wanted people to see us. That part? Hot.
After dinner, I dropped him at his hotel. Before getting out of my car, he kissed me like we were in a movie. And yes, I saw him again in the morning before he left.
When he got back home, the messages continued. Daily calls. Compliments. He was consistent. Solid. Or so I thought.
Then came the intimacy talk. That’s when his mask started to slip.
Suddenly, this “dominant old-school man” was sounding… weirdly submissive. Entitled. He wanted things. Demanded them. Kept pushing boundaries without actually committing. The red flags? Flying.
Then we started planning our second date. And he completely fumbled the bag.
First, he asked me to book his hotel room. Said he’d pay me back “in cash.”
Excuse me? You’re a grown man asking a woman you barely know to front your travel plans? Immediate turn-off. It screamed broke. And there’s nothing more unattractive.
Then came the final straw:
He asked me to buy the condoms.
I’m sorry—what?
I told him clearly and respectfully that this wasn’t going to work. That we had different standards. That it was best to end things here. He agreed.
So imagine my face when I woke up to a message from him the next morning like nothing had happened.
Like I hadn’t just drawn a boundary. Like the entire conversation meant nothing.
And that was the final confirmation:
This man wasn’t clueless. He just didn’t care.
He wanted access, not connection. He wanted attention, not accountability.
So I let him fade. No blocking. No drama. Just distance and silence.
And here’s the takeaway for anyone still dealing with these “gentleman” cosplayers:
✨ Consistency isn’t character.
✨ Affection isn’t accountability.
✨ And if a man asks you to play both princess and provider? He’s not a man. He’s a drain.
I don’t chase. I don’t coddle.
And I don’t settle for a cowboy with no boots, no spine, and no clue.
